


blood jet

by weatheredlaw



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety, Depression, F/M, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content, Past Relationship(s), Poetry, Skeletons In The Closet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-19 19:12:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4757723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The blood jet is poetry. There is no stopping it." -- Sylvia Plath</p><p>or: Varric Tethras, washed up, uninspired professor and writer of poetry, visits the three women he's loved, trying to understand a passion he has lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. flush

**Author's Note:**

> Flexing my poetry muscles here. I'm all about digging up memories and skeletons, so please enjoy this! I actually have _no_ idea how many chapters it will be, so we'll just roll with it. The poems are "Varric's" poems. Meaning I was like, WELL I HAVE TO WRITE LIKE FIFTY OF THESE. So I don't know what's happening anymore.

I wedge myself between you.  
I have forgotten how to stand on my own.  
You are two bookends, and  
we meet, gladly, there in the middle.  
I would whimper in your spared  
embrace.  
I would hold you until the  
feel of your skin on mine burned.  
I would remember you, until the  
last man folded, and all was  
not lost.

* * *

"There's not much I can do about it, Varric. You want the new editions, you need to write some new stuff." Varric heard the phone shift, the quick flick of a lighter on the other end of the line. Lynn, his publisher, inhaled smoke, blew into the receiver. "You've got some poems laying around yeah?" 

"No."

"Whip some up. You can manage that right?"

Varric sighed. "I don't know, maybe."

"Great! Couple weeks then? Say, eleven new pieces and a forward, alright?"

"Sure."

"You're a regular dreamboat, Tethras. I'll call you when I need you to send it over."

Varric sighed, tossing his phone onto his desk. 

Eleven _fucking_ poems. When the hell was he going to have the energy to write _eleven_ poems? Varric padded into the kitchen, figured he might start with a cup of coffee, but graduated to a glass of whiskey instead. He glanced at the clock over the stove. It had been two hours and sixteen minutes off since the storm that had rolled through last month, but Varric wasn't sure how to fix it. He took his drink back into his study, toeing a stack of books out of the way. Shit, it'd been, what, a year? A year, he realized, since he'd written anything. A year since --

"Ah, hell," he muttered. The old ache was coming back, but that might have just been his bones. 

There was some writing on his desk, but it was notes for a guest lecture he was supposed to give next month. He'd make good money from that, it was easy. Read a few old poems, let the kids shit all over his work, have coffee with some nice head of the department. There was a professor there, a writer in residence he'd known back when he was in Orlais. Maybe they'd get dinner, he could get laid. That might inspire him, even though the deadline was well before that. His old grey tabby sat in the window, stretching under the sunlight. Varric sat in the window seat, letting her flick his cheek with her tail as he sipped his drink. 

"What's new, Pip?" The cat said nothing, lifting her head to fix him with a quick stare before laying back down and closing her eyes. "Yeah, same here."

 

 

 

Once, a long time ago, Varric had been _something._

He'd been a businessman, too, but that was before university, when Bartrand was still alive and the family company was running full steam ahead. Varric was being groomed to help run one of the most successful investment firms in Thedas. His brother Bartrand had almost singlehandedly funded the recovery effort in Lowtown, after it had flooded some months before. He had been a close, personal friend of the Viscount, dined regularly with the head of the guard, and had danced with the Empress. Bartrand Tethras was impressive.

Varric was not.

He had no interest in what Bartrand was so passionate about, and their final argument had ended in a bitter, "Fine, do whatever the hell you want," from his brother. It was shameful, he'd said, that a brother of his wanted to go off to school and study _literature._ Embarrassing, he'd added, that he wrote poetry. Varric shrugged it off. He moved out of his brother's house and into a little place in Lowtown. 

"Right _back_ where we fucking came from, Varric. No _fucking_ shame."

Varric had always wanted to tell Bartrand that he did have shame. That he carried it with him every day of his life. That he was weighed down with it, the burden of being the unwanted, the one who had to look after their mother, the one who had to endure the drinking and the anger and the loss. But ashamed as he was, Varric knew better than to dump his pain on his brother. Bartrand felt no pain, endured no shame other than the ones he fabricated for himself after Varric had left. It was alright, though, in the end. They did okay with one another. They made up for it, in their own way.

Bartrand made money. And Varric became _something._

He was glad his brother died before he stopped writing. That might have been too much for either of them to endure. 

Varric shook off old memories. Bartrand was gone, now. Their cousin had taken over the family business and everything had gone just fine. Pushing himself off the window seat, Varric stood and drained his glass. There was work to do. He'd gotten old, sitting in his house, waiting for ambition. He'd gotten old and there wasn't much else to do but fight the urge to disparage himself on the page.

_you are what you consume_  
_dark wells of ink and wet cat food_

 

 

 

"It is a problem," Cullen said. He was searching for something in his desk, a sandwich maybe, he kept saying how hungry he was. "Have you considered asking--"

"That's got mold on it."

Cullen looked down at the bag in his hands. "Does it? Oh. That's disappointing." He sighed and tossed the thing in the trash, leaning back in his chair. His old black dog sat by his feet, looking up at Varric and yawning. "I've got class in half an hour."

"Same."

"I don't know what to tell you, Varric. It's a _good_ thing. Getting newer prints of your work means something. But you have to stay relevant."

"Have you been talking to my publisher, too?"

Cullen laughed. "No, but she isn't wrong. You need to let everyone know that you're still working, you're still, you know. Still _you._ "

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means you haven't written anything since--"

"Right, right." Varric raised both his hands and stood. "I know. I was just coming to bitch about it, Curly."

"And you're always welcome to." Cullen shuffled some papers on his desk. "You're not still teaching that course on the romance novel are you?"

"I am."

"Sap," Cullen said.

Varric bent down to scratch under the dog's chin. "Always was a sucker."

 

 

 

Varric hadn't written in so long. Two years, almost. One year, seven months, and nineteen days to be exact. Probably could figure out the hours, too, if he remembered hard enough. The day slipped by, class after class until he retreated to the sanctuary of his office, turned on his record player, and started grading some papers. He didn't grade at home. Made the house feel oppressive, and Pip laid all over them, scratching at the staples and mismatched edges. He kept his head down for an hour, ignoring the crick in his neck, grateful when someone knocked and he could look up.

"Lady Montilyet."

Josephine smiled, shutting the door behind her and coming into the room. "Master Tethras." She sat a bottle of wine on his desk and settled into the chair across from him. "Cullen told me you were searching for inspiration."

"That's...an understatement." He dug in his drawer and pulled out a wine opener and some plastic cups. Josephine poured. "Have you come to offer me some?"

"No," she said. "Unfortunately. I come bearing condolences and sympathies."

"I appreciate them."

"I do, however, have an...idea."

Varric took a sip and leaned back. "Alright."

"You told me, once -- and this was some time ago, so you will forgive me if I am misquoting you. But you told me that you had only been in love three times. In all your life. And you told me that each time, you wrote something. Sometimes only a few things, sometimes many things." Varric frowned. "I do not mean to upset you, but have you thought about...about going to them?"

"You'd like me to go and see the women I've loved to get inspiration?" Josephine shrugged. "Ruffles, that's..." He sighed, looking into the well of his little cup. "Hell, that's not half bad. You've been reading the romance course syllabus again, haven't you?"

"Every year, without fail."

"Right." Varric shook his head. "It's a good idea. But I don't think...things weren't pretty, at the end."

"Are things ever really pretty when we are in love?" Josephine asked.

"They seem alright with you and Curly."

"You were not in town when I set his jacket on fire."

Varric choked. "Tell me this story. Now." 

Josephine laughed and poured more wine, and Varric let the problems of deadlines and motivation flow away with the bottle. 

 

 

 

Varric had loved three women. In all his life, as Josephine had said. He had loved, and lost, three very bright, very spectacular women. His current position with them was, he suspected, tenuous at best. It had been some time since he'd spoken to any of them, and since the third, he'd made no effort to connect with anyone else the way he had with them. He dallied here and there, but he spent a great deal of time alone, with his cat of course. 

"You're the only woman in my life now, Pip." Varric looked down at her in his lap, where she had decided was an excellent place to rest, even though he was trying to read a manuscript an old friend had sent. He gave up and scratched behind her ears. "Maybe Ruffles is right." 

The cat purred.

"Oh, so you agree? Then maybe you can go to Bianca's house and deal with what's-his-name. I'm sure that would be a real sight." Nothing. "And then you can go to...to Hawke. And you can see if she'll even open the damn door. Probably won't. Not after what I said to her." He reached for his drink, took a long sip. Pip looked up at him, almost expectantly. "Cassandra would let you in," he murmured. "She loved you. She'd give you anything you wanted in a second."

Varric leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling. 

"You should see if she'll give back my damn heart."


	2. bianca

I think I built up a version of you  
that did not stand along with what  
you made yourself to be.

You blinked, the first time I saw you,  
and I was too far gone to be unloved.

( -- and if you are angry with me, I  
would not know, I never wanted to bleed  
on the dress he bought for you, but  
I think about the nape of your neck  
and I cannot breathe -- )

We are without cause -- 

(and so, we are without effect)

* * *

_"Ah, shit, sorry--"_

_"No, that's me, it's my fault--"_

_"Damn, where'd it--"_

_"Here, is this--" Varric looks up. She is still looking down, and he can see the way her hair falls down into her face. It parts like a curtain, shows him brown-sugar hair tied up messily on her head, smudges of graphite marking her cheeks like war paint. "Oh." Her mouth parts, makes the smallest noise, steals the air from Varric's lungs. She's so damn beautiful. There's something about her that makes his heart ache, but he'll only know that in the months down the line, when he knows that feeling first hand, for the first time._

_"Hi," he says. So eloquent, for the man who just sold five of his poems to a magazine._

_"Hi." She blushes and looks down at the books in her hands, a mix of his and hers. "Some of these are yours."_

_"Probably should sort that out."_

_"Probably," she says, looking around, spotting a little cafe. "Coffee?" she asks._

_Varric has plans, he thinks, but whatever they are, they can wait._

_"Yeah. Let's get coffee."_

 

 

 

What had Bartrand said about Bianca Davri? Hell, Varric couldn't remember much of anything Bartrand had said, but he did remember when they'd met, and she'd excused herself to wash up before dinner. He remembered the way Bartrand had watched her go, turned to Varric and said:

_"That family won't let you marry her."_

Varric had been nonchalant about it, had blown him off. He hadn't thought about marrying her, but they were together for two years after that, off and on, trying to make it work. He'd wanted to marry her, he'd wanted to be with her. He was twenty-one when he asked her father, twenty-two when he asked again. 

Twenty-three when she told him to stop. 

_"That family won't let you marry her."_

He spent a year without her, pretending she hadn't existed. He'd finally cobbled together a book when he was with her, finished his degree and was trying to figure out what to do next. She'd encouraged him to keep going to school, to work and save and write and do everything he wanted, to hell with whoever stood in his way. And that's the thing Varric always remembers about Bianca -- she could talk him into believing just about anything, even himself. Even at his worst. For that year without her, Varric dug, and he dug deep. He cored and empty himself and someone in Orlais called and asked him to do a reading. A year without Bianca, and suddenly she showed up at his door in Val Royeaux, and they spent six months in some kind of trance. For six months, Varric lived like she had come back to him. 

"S'not a good idea, Pip." He rolled over in bed, looking at the cat lounging on the other pillow. "S'bad idea." She said nothing, still snoozing, or at least pretending to. "Hell." He kicked the blankets back and got up to shower. He had an appointment at Bianca's office today, and since no one had called to tell him to go fuck himself, he assumed he wouldn't get shot when he walked in. Nice as her husband was, he'd never particularly cared for Varric. Probably shouldn't have dedicated that second book to her, and probably shouldn't have mailed her a copy.

Varric had done a lot of stupid things, in the years after Bianca. They both had. 

 

 

 

_"You can't just show up here like this! You want him to come over--"_

_"He's not in town, he doesn't know--"_

_"Yeah," Varric huffs. "That makes it better."_

_"I miss you." Bianca grabs his hands, pulls him toward her. "I miss you, and it hurts. Varric, you know how much it hurts, you're the only who does."_

_He closes his eyes, pressing their foreheads together. "Yeah, I do. But that doesn't make it okay."_

_"Just tonight," she whispers, and she kisses him, seals the deal._

_"Not a good idea."_

_"Just one night."_

_"It's never one," he murmurs._

_"Take me. Take me, and don't let go."_

 

 

 

He should have brought the cat. 

Pip had sat in the window when he'd left the house, and he watched her as he'd pulled out of the driveway. Josephine thought he was unhealthily attached to her, but Varric called it therapy. 

Sitting in the waiting room, watching the ceiling fan make lazy circles, Varric thought that he would have enjoyed carrying his cat into Bianca's office. Really would have showed her how much he'd grown as a person in the years since he'd seen her. 

Pictures of machines, cogs and bolts and contraptions -- they lined the walls of the place. Varric had never been able to figure out what Bianca had done, exactly. Some sort of mechanical engineer. She'd been building things for the university for years, things to help them run experiments. Her rhetoric had always been on a different level from Varric's. He liked to break down things into the art that went into them. Bianca just liked to pull them apart.

He'd had a radio, once, that she'd practically torn to pieces. They'd fought before she could put it together, and it was still sitting somewhere in Varric house, in little pieces, waiting for her. 

Should have brought that, actually. Should have asked her to fix at least one thing in his life she'd broken. But that wouldn't have been fair. They'd done a lot of the breaking together.

"Mr. Tethras?" _It's doctor,_ he wanted to say, just because. "Ms. Davri will see you now." Varric nodded and pushed himself out of the chair. He followed the secretary down the hall, decorated with blueprints this time, until they reached a set of wooden double doors. "Ms. Davri, your ten o'clock is here."

" _Come on in._ "

Varric swallowed.

She sounded the same.

 

 

 

_"Come on in," she says quickly, glancing around. "He'll be home soon."_

_"I know I shouldn't have called--"_

_"Varric, it's fine." She shuts the door and leads him into the kitchen. "You want some tea? It's cold out there."_

_"No. I just...no. No, it'll just be a minute." Bianca looks at him, folding her arms nervously over her chest. "Look, I wanted--"_

_The sound of children shrieking pierces the air between them, and Varric feels sick._

_"They're just playing," she says._

_"Your kids."_

_"Yes."_

_"How...how many?"_

_"Two. Valen and Norah."_

_Varric nods. "That's...that's good. That's what you wanted."_

_"Varric, did you--"_

_"Actually, I should go. I should...I should really go. Before he comes back."_

_"But you wanted--"_

_"I'll mail it to you," he says. "Keep it real secret."_

_He lets himself out. It easier to walk away like that._

 

 

 

"This another kid?"

Bianca looked up. She was trying to find something, digging in her desk drawers. "Huh? No, that's my grandson." She sighed and gave up. "What's going on, Varric?"

"Not much."

She laughed. " _Not much._ How long has it been? Twenty years?"

"Twenty-two."

"Right." She rested her chin in her hand. "Are you okay?"

"I've been better. I'm tired."

"Yeah." Bianca leaned back, running a hand through her hair, now streaked with great. "I think we all are."

Varric watched her for a minute, and he could remember so clearly the exact moment he fell in love with her, when he thought he could spend forever with her. 

"Varric?"

"Sorry."

She frowned. "Are you sure you're alright?" He shrugged. "Do you need money?"

" _What?_ "

"I'm sorry! I just...sometimes my family, they come in here, they want money. I needed to ask."

"Shit, I don't--" He groaned. "No, I don't need money. I need...to figure something out."

"Okay."

Varric looked at her. "Remember when...when we were together? Remember everything I wrote? I was writing that book, that first one." She smiled. "You... _inspired_ me. You gave me so much to think about. I had new words every day. I couldn't _stop_ writing, I sent them too much, they cut half of it out. Remember that?"

"You were so _mad._ "

"And then the second one, I wrote that thinking about you, too. And you weren't even there. You were gone, you'd gotten married. I wrote that book for you."

She sighed. "Yeah, I remember." 

"So what was it?"

Bianca frowned. "What was what, Varric?"

"What made us the way we were?"

"You want to know what made us dysfunctional and _unhealthy?_ "

He shrugged. "Sort of."

Bianca leaned back. There was a wide, frameless window behind her, opening up to the city. Varric had driven past this office and looked up, knowing it was her working beyond it. Now, she stood, and looked down. He wondered if she ever saw him. 

"I couldn't have you," she said quietly. "Bartrand always knew it, and I always knew it. You knew it, too, I think. I couldn't marry you, and you wanted a completely different life. You never wanted children. You didn't want to settle the way I did." She turned back to him. "I couldn't have you, and that made me want it more, even though I knew it wouldn't work. We were so young and so fucking _stupid._ We kept trying to make the other into the thing we wanted. I tried to talk you into having _kids_ , remember?"

"Yeah." Varric's voice shook, the air was trapped in his lungs.

_That family won't let you marry her._

"And you tried to talk me into moving to Val Royeaux. Leaving everything behind. But I couldn't. I couldn't leave what I was building, and you were never going to want a family." She drug her hand under her eye, breathed deep. "So. That's that, I guess."

_That's that._

Varric put his face in his hands. "Shit. _Shit._ "

_Take me._

Bianca came around, kneeling beside him and pulling him close, kissing his temple. 

_Take me and don't let go._

"Yeah," she said quietly. "Shit."


	3. spider

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been really really fun to write this poetry oh man. Short chapter here, just a bridge for the sadder stuff. Not that this isn't sorta sad. Oh man.

What I will remember, and what we  
were, cannot be mirrored.  
The gash, festering, blisters at the  
edges, reminds you that I was ruined  
from the start.  
Stench of rotting arteries, you  
came crawling and I was afraid because -- 

you see -- 

I thought you were a spider. 

* * *

Bianca offered to call him a cab, but Varric, despite losing the little scrap of possible inspiration he had before he met with her, still retained a good chunk of his dignity, and he left with his head up. He smiled, too, because he wasn't going to let this be the last time she saw him, the last _way_ she saw him. 

"Let me know if you need anything," she said quietly.

"What about what's-his-name?"

Bianca laughed. "We're too old to be afraid of each other anymore," she said quietly, and kissed his cheek. "Take care of yourself, Varric. Let me know when those new editions come out." 

He watched her go, standing there like an idiot, holding his keys in his hands. He was never planning on making all these trips in a single day -- he might never have been completely sane, but he hadn't completely lost it yet -- and the urge to curl up in a ball and possibly sleep forever was swelling up inside of him. He needed a drink. A drink with someone who would be honest, but kind. Someone who wouldn't walk on eggshells around him. Perhaps two someones.

 

 

 

" _Varric!_ Bull, Varric is here. Be a dear and fetch the whiskey." Dorian ushered him inside and shut the door. "You are _just_ in time, we haven't cooked anything and we've been trying to invent excuses to order out all evening." 

"I never expect you to cook on my account, Dorian."

"And I never expect you to expect it. _Look_ at us, turning rhetoric on its head and we've only been in the same room for, what, thirty seconds?" He laughed and snagged a few glasses off the table, handing one off to Bull when he came in the room. "Thank you, love." Dorian filled the glasses and passed them around. "This was a nice surprise. What are you even up to today? Shouldn't you be _writing?_ "

"I'm...working on it."

Bull leaned forward. "Oh, there's a story here."

"It's something, that's for sure."

Dorian took a drink. "Well, _go on._ "

Varric sighed, drained half his glass, and told them everything. He told them about the new editions, about the eleven _fucking_ new poems -- " _Vishante kaffas._ " -- about Josephine and her idea, about how he actually followed through and he'd spent the morning sitting in Bianca's office, trying to understand what had gone wrong, finally wrapping his head around it after twenty-two years. He emptied his glass and Bull reached forward to fill it again.

"Hell, Tethras. That's some shit."

"It's _obscene_ is what it is," Dorian said. "How could you do that to yourself?"

"Would you believe me if I told you it was cathartic?"

"Yes," Dorian said dryly. "You look very healthy right now. Very _relaxed_." Bull nudged him. "Well I'm just _saying._ If you'd wanted to get some inspiration, you could have just gone to a museum. You've written about _paint_ before, haven't you?"

"I don't know. It felt...right. Going there and talking to her. I mean I feel like fucking _shit_ right now, but I think tomorrow it'll be better." He paused. "I'm going to Hawke next."

Bull whistled and Dorian shook his head. "You can't do that."

"Well I can't _skip_ her--"

"You told me what you said to her. You _told_ me how she took it."

"I know." Varric ran his thumb over the edge of the glass. "It was bad. It was...it was really ugly. I remember it. I had to, though." 

"No," Dorian said sharply. "You didn't. You thought you did because you convinced yourself that she couldn't be reasoned with. Too passionate, you called her. She was too much for you, too soon. You were still in pain, you still _loved_ Bianca, and Hawke suffered for it because you didn't have the guts--"

"I didn't _come here_ for you to accuse me of being a bastard--"

"You were awful to her and you want me to tell you it's alright? That you did the _right_ thing? I've never thought that, not even for a _second._ "

Varric thought he had something to say, but there was nothing. Dorian was, as he so often turned out to be, completely right. Varric had said awful things to Hawke. They'd said awful things to one another, in some desperate attempt to figure out how it was going to end. That was the thing with them. They competed. They contrasted one another. They drew their line and lived around it, hovering next to the edge of ruin. Varric adored her, loved her, had never _been_ loved the way she did it. She made him feel more than alive, she elevated him to something beyond Bianca.

But not high enough to let her out of his sight.

"I did it anyway," he said quietly. "I felt like I was suffocating her."

"You were," Bull said. "You were angry, and she was young. She'd never had what you had with Bianca. That kind of heartache wasn't there for her."

"You gave it to her," Dorian spat.

Bull shook his head. "Stop antagonizing him." He looked at Varric. "You did, though."

"I know. Hell, I _know._ I know I hurt her, I know I broke her heart."

"When was the last time you spoke to her?" Dorian asked, softer now.

"Shit, I don't know. It's been years."

"Well, you started this," Dorian said. "I suppose you should finish it." He drained his own glass and set it down. "So! Let's eat."

 

 

 

Sated with food and whiskey, Varric headed home. He had missed his damn cat, and was happy to see that she'd apparently missed him, too, curling around his ankles and mewling appreciatively as he bent to pick her up. "Went better than expected," he said quietly, and held her close. "One down, two more to go." He set Pip down in the kitchen and opened a can of food for her before filling a kettle with water and putting it on to boil. Varric waited for the the whistle, lost in thought, eyes focused on one of the bookshelves in the living room. 

Tea in hand, he went to the shelf, thumbing over the spines until he unearthed an old University anthology from some time ago. The book fell open to the exact page, worn from years of finding it just to remind himself that he was some kind of asshole, even after all this time.

**_the hanged woman_ **   
_marian hawke_

_does our greatness await?  
settled like an important beast.  
you gave me two hands, two eyes,   
\-- your own mouth --   
but not your peace._

_i waited. i wanted to know.  
in my hands the earth slipped through.  
and you forgot my name when they asked,  
but in all fairness --   
they didn't ask for the truth._

_we screamed into broken fists,  
and i thought i found the moon in your belly.  
but i am alone, a dangling woman now,  
and our story grows roots with every telling._

_i might get better --  
i do, i know that i will.  
i might not be angry --   
not forever, not for years, but still._

_still._

It wasn't called, "I fucking hate you Varric Tethras," but he'd always thought it should have been.


	4. hawke

Pressed metal (I have you, I have you, I--)  
At the start of all things, we set off the alarm.

We were flames (I burned, I burned, I--)  
And someone called out, someone took the chance  
and someone got _smoked._

If my hands were clenched, if my fists were

(bleeding)

come and make me into a magician, come and see  
me spark (spark, flame, _smoke_ )

(I have you, I burned, I--)

* * *

The pomegranate tree was flowering.

Varric looked up into the branches that had started blooming and saw the tiniest spots of fruit dotted the sky above it, lost between green leaves and dark against the clouds. Pip scratched at the spindly base, making her way up into the lower limbs. "Careful," Varric murmured, and turned the hose onto the poppies. 

His backyard had once just been grass, with the bones of a vegetable garden someone before him had planted. His mother had grown flowers, and when he was young, she showed him how to plant and seed and water. Bartrand had come home too many times to count to find the two of them wrist deep in wet dirt, trying to rescue a mouse trapped within the garden walls. It had been her refuge from the drinking, from the anger -- Varric could always talk her into going out and looking for something new to plant. It didn't make it better all the time, but it helped. Every little thing could help.

He turned to water the roses, and thought of Hawke.

 

 

 

_"I had no idea you gardened."_

_"Is it so impossible to believe?"_

_She laughs, and it's so bright -- tea lights in paper bags. Her bracelets bounce against the wine glass in her hand. He knows it's not appropriate to have her here -- she's a PhD student, someone else's teaching assistant, probably fifteen years younger than him. But she's got fire, so much of it that Varric couldn't stop watching when he saw her. He'd heard of her, of course, everyone had. She's got poetry in every major literary magazine, already working on her first collection and she's not even thirty. Varric had sought her out, convinced her to have drinks with him, and she'd convinced him to do it at his place instead._

_He should regret this, the start of it all, but he can't. He watches her touch a rose, one of the crumbling, dying ones. He could write about this. He will write about this. The words already live in his head, waiting for him to put them to paper._

_"I don't know if I believe anything about you, professor." She looks at him with a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes, and Varric suddenly wants to know where a girl so young learned such impossible sadness._

_"You shouldn't," he says, even though he wishes she could._

 

 

 

Varric took his time with the next part. Getting down on his knees and digging up the plants that wouldn't make it through the winter. He'd grow them in the shed with the bulbs from last year, put them back in the ground at the start of spring. The first frost had burned a few, but the rest were alright. Sweet summer flowers that couldn't handle the cold. Pip scratched at his pant leg as he set the last of them on the long table under the skylight. "Yeah, alright, we're going in." He sighed and went to the backdoor. 

He couldn't make an appointment to see Hawke, and he didn't even know if she still lived at her old place anymore. It was a guess, and part of him hoped that she had finally left, that he might never find her. And then he could pretend he didn't have to, and pretend he didn't have to finish this. Then he could go to Josephine and tell her she was right, and well intentioned, then buy her a nice bottle of wine.

"Don't give me that look," he said. Pip sat on the kitchen counter and flicked her tail, watching him scrub dirt off his hands. He sighed and dried them, looking around for his jacket. "Alright, alright. I'm going. But if she's not there, this is over. It's a sign, or something."

 _You don't believe in signs,_ a voice said. A memory, yanked up, like roots. Not Bianca, not Hawke -- 

No. _No._ It wasn't time for that yet. Later. That would come later.

Varric grabbed his keys from their little hook by the door and spared Pip one last look. "She'd talk to you," he said. "She wouldn't throw you out on your ass." 

Pip was not impressed, and Varric scowled before closing the door behind him.

 

 

 

_"Does your department know you're being this bad?"_

_"I'm not obligated to tell them about us," he murmurs, and bends his head to nip at the nape of her neck. She moans, letting her head roll to the side, giving him better access. Varric brushes his nose against her hair, closes his eyes and breathes. She buys those bottles of shampoo that say things like strawberries and cream, but just turn out to smell like candy, and he loves it._

_"You're becoming strangely obsessed with my hair."_

_"There's a lot of it."_

_"It's thin," she says quietly. "Bethany had all the hair." Hawke reaches up and pulls him closer, presses her lips to his. "Undress me," she says._

_"Sure thing."_

 

 

 

The building looked just like he remembered. He'd always been happy to see it, up until the end. Tall, brick, and ancient. It was everything he loved about Kirkwall, something old among the shiny new bits of Hightown. He parked near the spot he used to park almost every time he came over, but he couldn't get out of the car. 

_You're jealous._

He gripped the steering wheel. After his mother died, he'd had anxiety attacks, but they lived in the dark walls of his closet, hidden from Bartrand, from everyone else. After a while, they went away. He felt the shadow of them, though, always. He felt it now, slipping into his chest, taking over. He closed his eyes.

_You can't say you don't love me._

She would hit him. She'd pushed him, then. She'd been so angry. 

_You carry her around, and you want me to be like her, but I can't._

He was a coward then, he was a coward now. What difference did the years make, really?

 

 

 

_"I've never met anyone like you."_

_"You need to meet more people, profess -- oh."_

_"Again?"_

_"Yes, please, yes--"_

_"I love you."_

_"Again, say it again--"_

_"I love you." He rolls his hips. "Exquisitely."_

_"Only you. Only you would say that."_

 

 

 

The door opened, but it wasn't Hawke. It was another woman, tall and thin, dark hair piled on her head. She leaned against the door frame and smiled, like a flower. Like a daisy.

"Hello."

Varric swallowed. "I'm, uh, I'm looking for Hawke."

The girl blinked, frowned. _Shit, shit, shit--_

"Oh! Oh, you mean Marian." She smiled and turned to call further into the apartment. " _Marian!_ Marian, there's someone here to see you."

"Right, right, coming--" 

Varric thought about running. She was walking, she was going to turn the corner, she was going to see him, and everything welled up, everything that had ever happened, all the things he'd said -- 

_You don't know how to love completely._

_This is a game to you._

_How could you expect me to love you forever?_

"Who's--" She froze, and _oh._ Oh, _there_ she was. A elegant, as beautiful, as crooked-happy as he remembered. She stood there, the chasm of her apartment between them. "Oh," she said. "Oh, it's you." 

"Yeah."

He thought for sure she was going to rush him, push him away and slam the door shut in his face.

He didn't think she was going to smile, close the space between him and throw her arms around him.

" _Varric._ " She still smelled like candy. "I've _missed_ you. Shit have I missed you." Hawke pulled back, laughing and wiping tears from under her eyes. "Merrill, love, could you give us a bit?"

"Surely." The girl reached for her purse and pulled on some shoes, dropping a quick kiss before she left. "Call me if you need something, yeah?" 

"Right." Hawke smiled and shut the door after her. "Holy shit." She laughed, still crying a bit, and hugged him again. "I can't believe you're actually here. I had a _dream_ about you the other night, did you know that?" Varric smiled. "Come on, come in. Let me get you a drink, you want a beer? Merrill made some fancy lemonade."

"I'll take the fancy lemonade."

"Of course you will." She grinned and led him into the kitchen.

"Place looks different."

"It does, yeah. You know, I dated this poli sci drop out for a while, name was Anders. He rearranged all the furniture. Didn't like it at first, but when he moved out I was suddenly crazy about it." She paused to fill his cup. "Also far too lazy to move it. Merrill thinks it looks great."

"She seems nice."

"Oh she's wonderful. A scientist, but still. Wonderful." She poured herself some coffee, filling it with creamer. Always liked the sweet things. "Go on in the living room, I'm gonna finish making myself a sandwich. You want anything?"

"No, no. This is good." Varric trailed out of the kitchen, looking around. She'd changed so many things, even the wall color. There was still the same painting he remembered from before, but it hung across from its original place. There were more candles, more plants. There was more _life._ He found a coaster and set his glass down, spotting a shoddily bound manuscript on the coffee table. "Is this a mockup of your new book?"

Hawke called out from the kitchen. "Yeah. You can read it if you want." She came back in, part of a sandwich hanging from her mouth. "You might recognize some of them."

Varric nodded. "I do. Third one, right?"

"It is. Really excited. I think it's my best so far."

"I read your novel last year."

She coughed. " _Did you?_ Hell, what did you think?"

"I loved it. I wrote a review, but I never sent it anywhere." She laughed. "It didn't seem appropriate."

"Probably wasn't." She sighed and tapped the spot next to her. "Sit down, professor. Tell me what's on your mind."

Varric settled next to her, remembered this couch well. She must have, too, because she looked at him, grinning. "Don't," he said.

"Don't what? Remind you of that one _amazing_ time when you--"

"No." He shook his head. "Really, just...just don't."

Hawke frowned, leaning forward to put her plate down before angling herself toward him. "What's up, Varric? What's wrong?"

He sighed. "My publisher wants to release some new editions of my work."

"Varric that's _amazing._ That's _fantastic._ "

"I need to write eleven new poems."

Hawke shrugged. "Alright. So you write eleven new poems."

He shook his head. "I haven't written anything in a year."

She laughed. "What's that for you, three months?" Varric only stared. "Oh shit, you're serious."

"I am."

"Damn. That's...that's rough. That's a long time, for you especially." She sighed, running a hand through her hair. "Shit, Varric, I'm so sorry." She frowned. "I don't...have any of your stuff. You wrote me some things, but I don't--"

"That's not why I'm here."

"Okay."

"I'm here because...because I want to understand something." She leaned closer. "I want to understand...us. What made us work. What made it all fall apart." He paused. "In your own words. I have something of an idea, but--"

Hawke laughed. "Yeah, I'm sure you do."

 

 

 

_"I can't be Bianca!"_

_"I'm not asking you to be! That's not what I fucking said--"_

_"Then what was that? What was that fucking about, that fucking reading--"_

_"I didn't say--"_

_"You never wanted me. You wanted something you could pretend was her."_

_Varric slams a stack of books on the kitchen table. She's gone and done it again, gotten too angry, too quick, and he is exactly the same, trying to be angrier, trying to prove his rage outdoes her own._

_"You are such a fucking child."_

_She freezes, mouth open._

_"So that's what it is, then. I'm not enough for you."_

_"I didn't say that."_

_"No," she spits. "No, you told me you loved me and then you went to her, I know you went to her--"_

_"I didn't--"_

_"Stop lying. All you do is lie, how can I believe it when you tell me how you feel?"_

_"Then maybe you shouldn't." She stops. Varric stops. He can't believe he's telling her this, he can't believe he's going to say this -- "I told you. I told you not to believe me."_

_She is backing away, and he only needs to say one more thing, just to shatter it, just to make it into exactly what he's been waiting for it to become._

_"I don't love you." One crack. "Maybe I did, for heartbeat. But I don't. Not anymore." Two cracks._

_Just enough to shatter._

_Hawke, sweet, tea light Hawke -- she is fire and fury and nothing like how he first imagined her. He realizes now that he was wrong to find her delicate. Wrong to think she could be easily broken._

_She flips his kitchen table over, and that is the last time he sees her._

 

 

 

"You know," she said quietly, leaning her head on his shoulder. "I tried to call you."

"I know that."

"I tried to talk to you loads of times. But you wouldn't speak to me."

"I figured you were calling to tell me how much you hated me. You wrote that poem--"

" _The Hanged Woman?_ " She laughed. "Shit, yeah, I was angry. But I stopped, after a while. I got better. You really hurt me. Sometimes I think about it, all the fights we had and the really _fucking_ horrible shit we said." She shook her head. "You hurt me. I was so messed up." Hawke looked up at him. "But I know I hurt you, too."

"Not the same way."

"Definitely not. But I know I did. I know we were awful to one another." She sighed. "I wish I could go back and do those parts over."

"No such luck."

"Yeah." 

"I saw one of your guest lectures, in Haven." 

"Did you?"

She grinned and pulled away. "I did. A friend said you were there when I was visiting, asked if I wanted to egg you on stage."

"Shit."

"I said no, and she wouldn't go with me, so I went alone." Hawke leaned forward and took a sip of her coffee. "You read a poem you'd written for me."

"That must have been fun."

"It was nice, actually. It was good to see you. You smiled a lot." She folded her legs under herself and put her head on his shoulder. "I missed you. I missed being your friend."

Varric put an arm around her. "I didn't know you still wanted that."

"Of course I wanted that, stupid. You've just got stones in half your brain, so you wouldn't talk to me."

"What about now?"

"Now?" Hawke sighed. "I don't know. I'd like to...be something for you. To you. I'd like to be your friend, more than anything. But I want you to...to _want_ that." She took his hand in hers. "There's just some hurt here, still. Stuff we need to work through. I want you in my life, but I also need to know I can trust you."

"Tall order."

"Yeah, well, it matters."

"It does." Varric shifted and stood. "I should probably go."

"Think you'll be able to write about this?" Hawke asked, stretching.

"Maybe. We'll have to see." He walked toward the door.

"Hey, you know, I should probably be thankful on some level," she said. "In some fucked up way."

"Oh? Why?"

Hawke grinned, leaning forward to kiss his temple. "After you broke up with me, I wrote some really good shit."


	5. copper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [stares into the camera like on the office]

Move with me.  
(wind blow, wind blow)  
Pick up your sword.  
(wind blow, wind blow)  
Say it, now. Say it slow.

(wind blow, wind blow)

Cover me.

_stay._

(wind blow, wind--)

_blow._   


* * *

_Echo._

Breathe.

_Do you like it?_

She couldn't dance. Varric remembered that.

 

 

 

"One left."

Had there only been three?

_Echo, echo._

"Make me into--"

_You don't believe in signs._

The soft touch of her hands on his face. Crawling up. On her knees, but never in service. She wounded him when she smiled.

Disarming.

_Echo._

Breathe.

_Do you like it?_

She couldn't cook. Varric remembered that.

 

 

 

_Come, come for me, let me see you--_

She was a physicist.

_You are a theory, if you think about._

She had soft hands, rough palms.

_We are all theories._

Theoretical stardust.

 

 

 

So different from the others.

So different.

Was Varric marked this way?

_You are a theory._

Was he defined--

_Echo. Echo._

 

 

 

_Breathe._

 

 

 

"Cassandra."

A pause. A breath.

_An echo._

"Yes?"

 

 

 

Breathe.

_Breathe._


	6. cassandra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk man someday i'm gonna be able to write neurotypical characters.
> 
> some fucking day.
> 
> (lol who am i kidding why the fuck would i do that)

You dig and you don't, you rake  
over my knuckles like coals and I was  
going to tell you the truth, I really  
was.

(I think you beat me to it, beat me  
there -- )

Part of me is always going to be  
rooted in the curtain, the veiled,  
spotty lie, peppered by honesty.

(I thought I found you there, alone  
in the dust, but it was only me,  
and there was no more us.)

* * *

Varric, in truth, saw Cassandra nearly every day.

She walked the same way from the bike she rode to work, across campus, and to her office each morning. Varric walked the same way from his parking spot, across campus, and to his own office each morning. For a brief moment, their paths crossed. Their eyes met. 

She always smiled. 

Varric always felt a hole in the pit of his stomach. 

It was hard, still, not to be in love with her.

 

 

 

_"You have personally seen to it that this has happened."_

_"I think you're getting a little conspiratorial," Varric says. He is trying his best to ignore her, because she is loud, accusatory, and shouting. People are beginning to stare. "How about instead of you verbally assaulting me out here, you come into my office?" Varric unlocks the door and gestures for her to go in. She opens and closes her mouth a few times before nodding brusquely and finding a chair. "Now. Tell me what you're so angry about."_

_"You! I am angry about you! I know you wrote the proposal, I know that you took my grant money--"_

_"Are you fucking kidding me? Is that what this is about?" Varric had planned on giving her the benefit of the doubt, but now he's pissed. "Get the fuck out of my office, Pentaghast. Go read the damn thing again. I didn't take shit from you. Why the hell would I want your money?"_

_"You said, you named me specifically--"_

_"I named you because I read your paper. Shit, what's the matter with you? Did you even finish reading my proposal? Or did you see that I put your name down and suddenly I'm the one who took your money?"_

_Cassandra frowns._

_"That's what I thought."_

_Quickly, she stands, her cheeks red as she rushes the door. She grabs the handle and pauses, though, before turning back. "Is there a cat in here?"_

_Varric shrugs. "Sometimes she gets lonely at home."_

_"Ugh."_

 

 

 

She was not in her office when he went looking for her, and a quick interrogation of her teaching assistant told him she was in lecture, would be for another hour. Varric didn't have it in him to sit in the back and listen to another talk on star distances and theoretical compositions of gas giants and dwarf planets. He went back to his own office, paced, feeling something tugging on him, like hand pulling his ear. 

_Words,_ he realized. Holy shit, the words. The words were going to come back. Little as they might be, slowly as they might travel. He scrambled to get paper and pen, not even bothering to sit, the lines coming forth -- 

_i listen for the discord we  
shattered, two gourds in their patch  
we have shredded we have dug out we  
wear shades and then can't find the  
sun. rose rose rose -- i find the  
smallest part of me is clambering to  
be heard, and i rise rise rise -- i  
find the hardest part of this is  
the nightmare of wind, of being_

_irrelevant._

_i am._

_i was._

"Varric?" 

He dropped the pen. She stood in the doorway, that same, old leather bag she carried everywhere slung across her shoulder. She sloped, leaned against the door frame, her eyes hard, the lines of her mouth drawn back. She was as she had always been to him -- 

"Cassandra."

Shit, and then she smiled. She smiled and he was broken all over again. "Are you writing something?"

"Ah. Well--" He folded the page over and stuffed it into his pocket. "S'not done yet. You, uh, you wanna sit?"

"Of course." She made her way to the chair in front of his desk, setting her bag at her feet while Varric searched for something to offer her. "I am fine without a drink," she said. "But thank you for thinking it."

"Right." He gave her a quick smile and settled behind his desk. 

There were several long minutes of silence -- Cassandra looking around the office, Varric looking at Cassandra. Finally, she turned to him. "You came looking for me."

"I did?" She raised an eyebrow. "Shit, yeah, I did. Um--"

"Are you well? You seem nervous."

"No, I just--"

Cassandra frowned. "I should go. It was not appropriate to come here--"

" _No._ " Varric almost shouted it, and she frozen, caught between standing and sitting, and slowly lowered herself back down. "Sorry. I just...no. I don't want you to go." He ran a hand through his hair. "I never wanted you to go."

 

 

 

_For all she tells him that she cannot stand him, for all she reminds him that he is fanciful and idealistic, out of touch with reality -- when she kisses him, it doesn't feel that way. When she kisses him, it feels...like coming home._

_Everything and everyone before then has always weighed heavy on his lips. But Cassandra is light, she is without strings, without attachment, without expectation. Varric is lost, and she takes control. Varric is surrendering, and she is accepting. It doesn't matter, doesn't matter at all. He trails his hands over her sides, under her blouse._

_She is beautiful. She is stone._

 

 

 

Cassandra huffed, folded her arms over her chest. "Is that what this was about, then? You are still angry with me? I am tired of explaining myself to you, Varric. I told you everything I could when this happened, I am not--"

"What?" He looked at her. "Shit, no, I'm not angry with you."

"Then what is this? Why are you questioning my students and trying to find me? What more could we possibly have to say to one another on the matter?"

Now it was his turn to scowl. "A lot," he spit. "There's a lot to fucking say about it, but you took off, you wouldn't let me ask you anything--"

"I told you why I was leaving."

"Yeah, you said you were unhappy. Didn't bother to explain where that had come from. Didn't bother to tell me--"

"It is not my responsibility to direct your attention to the things you refuse to see! You are a grown man. All of your relationships have been on someone else's terms, so you assumed that I would tell you, that you would never have to notice--"

"So that's what we're going to get into now, huh?"

She stood. " _You_ were the one seeking _me._ If all you have to say to me is trite, poorly thought out excuses, then we are _finished_ , Varric." Cassandra grabbed her bag, pushing the chair out of her way as she left. She stopped at the door, closing her eyes. "I had thought that you...that you wanted to start anew. Perhaps become friends, the way we once were. But I see now that nothing has changed. And we are far too old to expect it from each other anymore."

"What the hell does that even _mean?_ " he called after her, but she was already gone, the door slamming shut behind her. Varric went to it, considered opening it up and shouting after her, telling her to forget it, that he didn't want to see her again, to end things on his terms.

She had vanished. Varric kicked the door, rattling it on its hinges. Quickly, he reached into his pocket, yanked out the paper, and ripped it to shreds. 

Because fuck this.

 

 

 

He went home, and he drank. 

Varric drank a lot. He'd been drinking since before college. Hawke thought he had a problem, but it was around the time in their relationship when Varric had stopped taking her seriously, and then things ended, and there wasn't anyone in his life anymore to tell him he had a serious fucking problem. 

Cassandra would, sometimes. But Varric had seen her put away a bottle of wine, maybe two, more than once, and they weren't capable of saying these things to each other. Not then. Not ever. 

Varric spent a lot of time putting Cassandra on a pedestal. She spent a lot of time breaking him down. They'd been good for each other, that way. Good because Varric's ego had always been a little over inflated. Good because Cassandra was hard on herself, and Varric thought she needed to hear what he wanted to say. They were good for each other until they were not. Until their collective baggage became too much, and Varric found himself suffocating, but refusing to see. 

"I fucked that one up," he muttered. Pip was not impressed. She sniffed around him and made a little noise before finding a place far from him to curl up. "Yeah, I know."

He wasn't too far gone when she showed up. Varric knew it was her before he even opened the door -- she just had that sort of knock, and he remembered it well. 

"I still have questions," she said. Too quiet. Too quiet to be Cassandra.

"I don't really have a lot of answers anymore."

"I want to know why you wanted to see me."

"Okay."

"I want to know why you didn't understand. I want to know why we--"

"Cassandra--" He pulled her in and shut the door behind her. 

"Varric, I cannot do this with you again, not if--"

"Who said anything about that?" He led her back into the living room. "How about we start with a drink?" 

She nodded, finding a place to sit. Pip immediately jumped into her lap. "Oh, hello little one."

"She's missed you."

"And I have missed her." The cat immediately began to purr. Varric poured Cassandra a glass of wine, and she drained half of it. "I have missed...I have missed _you_ ," she said. "Terribly."

"It's been a rough year."

"Is it true? That you have not written anything?" Varric didn't answer. "Josephine told me that you were...trying to write again. That you needed new work." She reached into her bag, digging out a thick stack of papers wrapped in twine. "This is everything you wrote me."

"Cassandra--"

"It is all unpublished and unread, you know this--"

"I can't take that."

"If you need them for the new books, then you may have them. They're yours."

"No," he said. Varric scrubbed a hand over his face. "No, they're yours. I wrote them for you."

 

 

 

_He loves the way she comes undone. He's seen her lectures, he's watched her teach, watched her move. She is nothing like that here -- here she writhes under his tongue, begs him for more, puts her hands in his hair and arches her back._

_Stardust._

_And she can do the same to him. She can say things to him that make him weak. He can take her anywhere, and still, it feels like making love._

 

 

 

"So you are...doing this? Talking to the women in your life?"

"Yes."

Cassandra flicked the edge of her wine glass. 

"It was a good idea on Josephine's part. But are you getting what you want?"

"Sort of. What I don't want, sometimes."

She laughed, so quiet. Still, too quiet. "That is how it goes these days, is it not?"

"Seems that way." 

She folded her legs under herself on the chair, still scratching behind Pip's ears. "It was very hard, after it was over. I missed you all the time. I thought about you every day. I saw you, and I thought about walking some other direction. Seeing you was...it hurt."

"I wanted it."

"So did I."

"Did I make you unhappy?" he asked.

Cassandra sighed. "Yes. And no. You made me _happy_ , for so long. But I can't really...explain. I felt the same way when I was a girl. And when I was with Galyan. Sometimes, it would...it would grow so large. I couldn't stop it. This overwhelming sadness without explanation."

"I made you feel that."

" _No,_ Varric. It was not...no one _made_ it happen. I think it has just always been a part of me."

"Depression."

"Yes. I have been rejecting it for a long time. I was seeing someone off and on, but I always thought I needed...a person. Someone to love me. That would fix it. I always thought that would fix it." She paused. "Anthony said that it would. That if I was in love, it would go away."

"That's not how that works."

"I am well aware of that, Varric." She sighed. "I put the responsibility of fixing me on your shoulders."

"You weren't _broken--_ "

"It certainly felt like I was. I could not stay with anyone. I could not keep the jobs that I had. I could not write or research. And when I was with you, for a while, I could do all of those things. But it was just...a euphoria. It was only brief. It went away, and I was alone again." Cassandra sat up, reaching for her wine. "So I left. I finally found someone to talk to, and I have spent the last year trying to get better."

"Is it working?"

"It has been...a process," she admitted.

"Did I make it worse?"

"Again, yes and no. I think you saw me as something I was not. But then, I did the same to you. I was not your muse, Varric. We are far too old for muses. And you were not going to rescue me, not that way."

Varric leaned forward. "I wrote more when I was with you than I had ever--"

"Yes," she said quickly. "You have told me a thousand times. I will not take credit for that. You are superbly talented, and you do yourself no favors by implying you cannot write without a woman by your side." She looked at him. "It does you no good."

Varric felt the beats of his heart pass between them.

"Alright," he said.

"Hmm?"

"Alright." He stood. "I get it. I understand now."

"What do you understand?"

"Everything. I've been...shit, I've been so fucked up over this for so long. I leaned too much. On you, on Bianca, on Hawke--" He laughed. "I leaned because I didn't think I could...could _stand_. Not on my own. I did it all to myself. And then I pushed. I wanted it, and then I pushed it away." Varric turned to her. "I hurt you."

"Yes. But you were not alone."

"I'm still not over you."

"That is not something I can help you with."

Varric nodded. "I know that."

"But..." Cassandra reached for him, drawing him closer to where she sat. "Perhaps...I do not want you to...to be over me."

Varric felt his throat tighten. "What are you saying?"

Cassandra smiled, lifting his hands, pressing her lips to his knuckles. "I am saying...that I gave you my heart. I never did ask for it back."


	7. clean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short, but satisfying conclusion, in my opinion. have at it, kids. i have a kitchen to clean.

I moved the mountain, stone for stone,  
and I crawled on my belly, through the  
briar, until the sun reached my fingertips  
and the water rushed into my hands.

I was clean.

(my lips, my tongue, the brush of skin)

I was _clean._

(stone for stone, i went into the brine  
of the sea and i came into the grotto  
and i wound my body into knots and i let

everything go)

I was clean.

* * *

They smelled beautiful. Fresh, new, beautiful books, sitting on his kitchen table, untouched. He lifted one, inspected the binding, took that first breath.

"Do you need a moment alone?" Varric looked up, and Cassandra stood in the kitchen, long fingers wrapped around a mug, leaning against the wall. "You seem content."

"Look at them. They're beautiful."

"Yes," she agreed, coming around to the other side of the table. Varric felt her fingers brush his back, trail over his shirt and stop at his neck. "You did well, my love." She kissed the top of his head and wandered back into the bedroom. Varric watched her go, unable to stop the grin from spreading over his face. He finally opened the first one, a new printing of his few collection, and ran his fingers over the bumps of newly printed type. He'd worked hard for this. He'd put a lot of himself into this first one, a lot of what and who he'd been. Even his _brother_ had liked it. In his own way.

Varric set the book back on the table and poured his own cup of coffee before going after Cassandra. She was standing in the bathroom, sliding her nightshirt over her head. He watched her undress, and she caught his reflection in the mirror, and smiled. "Are you done with them, then?"

"For now."

"You should be very proud." She slipped out of the rest of her clothes and turned on the shower. Varric undressed and followed her without question, and she welcomed him with open arms. 

They had not tried again, not at first. Varric needed time to think about what had happened, and Cassandra needed more time for herself. It was some weeks before he saw her again, and that night he made her dinner, and she fell asleep in his arms on the couch, the sound of the record playing skipping waking up just before sunrise. After that, she had become so permanent a fixture in his life and his house, it was like they lived together again. He was happy. As was she. 

They did not keep secrets anymore.

And that didn't mean it was easy. If anything, it became harder. She would tell him when he was too much for her, and he would tell her when she was suffocating him. They fought. They argued. They threw words that hurt, hurled accusations and things they didn't mean at one another. But in the end, they were better for the honesty. And if it was just another lie, it was a lie they could agree was a truth, of sorts, and Varric supposed that was all that mattered.

 

 

 

In the spring Bull and Dorian married. It was a beautiful affair, grand beyond measure. Cullen was an eloquent best man, but Bull's old friend Krem gave him a run for his money. Part-way through the speeches, Dorian grabbed Varric by the arm and yanked him away from a conversation with their old friend Trevelyan -- "You must say something," Dorian said.

"I don't have anything."

"Oh, _come now._ You and I both know you need absolutely no preparation."

Varric sighed, and Cassandra caught his eye. She turned toward him, raising her glass ever so slightly. Varric took the microphone from its stands and looked around.

"So. We're all here. I didn't really think I'd ever be at wedding for either one of these guys, I'll tell you that much." He glanced over his shoulder at the two of, their scowls identical, but endearing. "I've known them both for a long time, but I guess together, they became someone I didn't know as well. Always surprising me. When they moved in together, I took bets for how long it would last. Lost a lot of coin that much." He can hear Hawke in the audience snorting -- he'd lost most of it to her. "But the surprises were always the best part. They usually are, right? You think you know what's going to happen, and then--" He shrugged. "I think when it all changes that way, you have to know there's no way you'll be prepared for it. And it's either going to knock you down, or it's going to raise you up.

"We're all made better when the people we care about find love for themselves. We're all better because these two found each other. We're all better when anyone finds someone, because it just proves what the world's been trying to tell us for so long. That love is dead, it's a shade and a joke." He turned full to Bull and Dorian and raised his glass. "Here's to you, then. Not a shade, not a joke. Hell, not even a story. You're the real thing, and I'm lucky as hell to have you in my life. Thanks for reminding us all that it isn't impossible."

Varric drained his glass, and Dorian gave him a rather weepy hug. Bull only nodded, and Varric gravitated back to Cassandra. She welcomed him with a soft hand. "That was very lovely, if brief."

"Too short?"

"It is only that I have known you to wax poetic for many hours. I have been to your lectures."

"It's a wedding," he said. "Tell it like it is."

"And how is it, then? You said what you said very carefully."

Varric sighed and leaned back in his chair. She had propped her feet in his lap, and he curled a hand gently around her ankle. "It's exactly what it is. Every time someone finds love, the world gets a little bit better."

"Is your world better, Varric?" She rested her head in her palm, smiling at him. Varric took the bait.

"Sure is, princess."

"We agreed that is a terrible nickname."

"No, we agreed you didn't like it. Whether I could use it or not is still on the table."

Cassandra sighed and poured herself another glass of wine. "I will let it go for now, if only because I am too drunk to disagree."

"How improper of you."

"I will show you how improper I can be," she said, and flashed her teeth.

Varric's heart _soared._


End file.
